The drive to Viareggio takes ages. As it’s a Sunday, the roads are full of cyclists, many of them in such large groups I struggle to overtake. Callum and Mabel sit with their earphones in, but still manage to scoff and snigger at my driving. By the time we arrive, the only parking space we can find is a fifteen-minute walk from the front. The kids complain all the way to the promenade.
We decide to stroll down the concrete pier, its walkway covered in crazy paving. On our left is a marina full of yachts andspeedboats, bobbing and clinking in the water; behind that, a much bigger and more industrial-looking shipyard. Theo tries testing Callum and Mabel on the flags flying from some of the boats but they’re not interested.
On our right is a long stretch of beach packed with people. The coarse sand isn’t quite golden: it’s slightly darker, like a burnished gold. But the Mediterranean laps the shore and the sky is an uninterrupted slab of clear, sharp blue.
Theo gestures at the view. “Look at that, gang! Isn’t it superb?”
“Woo-woo!” says Archie. He climbs onto the wall separating the pier from the beach. I walk alongside him in case he needs to grab onto something.
“I hate the beach,” whines Mabel, pulling her wide-brim straw hat down at each side.
“I hate the sand,” Callum agrees.
“Are there any sharks?” asks Archie.
Callum scoffs. “Not in the Med, Archie. There might be jellyfish though.”
Mabel looks up. “What about sea urchins?”
“I’m not even engaging in this conversation,” Theo says, pausing to shake a stone out of his slider. “We’re not going on the beach so let’s all just stop moaning about it.”
We continue walking, past the end of the sand and the start of a strip of enormous rocks that have been arranged along the side of the pier, presumably to break the waves. Theo has to restrain Archie from jumping off the wall and scrambling over them, especially when he spots a few fishermen. Perched on a little outcrop is a bronze statue of what looks like a family. We read the plaque and discover it’s calledL’attesa—which translates as “the wait”—and is meant to signify hope. I could do with a bit of that.
When we reach the end of the wall, Theo lifts Archie down and we stand on the square platform, looking out to sea. The other arm of the marina stretches around us, its main wall decorated with graffiti. I turn to take in the view back to the beach, the town behind it and the now familiar mountains behind that. But this is the first time I see that one of them has a white peak, with chunks of marble sliced out of it, just like Luisa and Stefano said. I point itout to Theo, whose face lights up. When he shows Callum and Mabel, their faces darken.
“Boring,” dismisses Callum.
I want to take some pictures of us all but Callum and Mabel refuse. So I take a selfie with Theo, his arm around me, the two of us tipping back our Panama hats so our faces aren’t in shadow. As we stroll back down the pier, I post it on my Instagram with the captionMi amore. The kids might be doing their best to spoil the summer but that’s not going to stop me showing off my gorgeous man. Then Archie holds my hand, which could brighten up the most miserable day.
At the bottom of the pier, we come to the start of the promenade. Unusually, this doesn’t run directly along the beach but is separated from it by a row of elegant shops, cafés and restaurants, as well as private beach clubs, which all seem to have pools. On the opposite side of the promenade is a row of palm trees, beyond that the road, beyond that a long stretch of hotels and villas. The architecture is all in the same style, with lots of arches, curving lines and ornamentation, often patterned with flowers and leaves. Theo and I think it might be Art Deco but he checks online and discovers it’s Art Nouveau.
“What do you think of the architecture?” Theo asks Mabel.
“Dad, I’ve got period pains,” she grumbles. “I couldn’t care less about the architecture.”
Theo frowns. “Sorry. Is there anything I can do to make it better?”
She glowers at him. “Iknewyou wouldn’t understand! I wish Mum was here!”
“I’m starving!” chimes Callum.
I let out a weary sigh. “Look, shall we just go and get some lunch?”
Theo agrees.
But after much trudging around, the only place we can find with a table for five is a very basic pizzeria that’s three blocks away from the seafront. And it isn’t till we sit down that we realize the menus are only in Italian.
“That’s a good sign!” insists Theo. “It means this place is for locals.”
I have to hand it to him: he’s doing everything he can to flip the mood.
“It’s also cheaper,” I chip in. “So you’ll get no complaints from me.” I try not to think of all that extra money I have to find for the retaining wall. At least Giuseppe said I can settle any fees outside the original budget at the end of summer.
We manage to place our order—in very inept Italian—but when the food arrives, Mabel gives a yelp. “Dad, this isn’t meant to have olives! It’s acapricciosa—when I get them at home they never have olives.”
Theo’s unfolding his napkin on his lap. “Can’t you just pick them off?”
“Dad, they’ve touched the rest of it. I’mallergicto olives!”
